The letter tree, p.2
The Letter Tree, page 2
“I’ll check the window.” Laura grinned, grateful that Mrs. Guskin had no fear of undermining her father. “I don’t want a lecture from him today.”
Mrs. Guskin adopted the deep voice she used whenever she mimicked Laura’s father. “How many times must I tell you—how you behave affects the factory. No one needs to see my daughter running around like a tomboy.” She laughed, and her voice returned to normal. “Go on. Put on a decent dress in case someone spots you. Enjoy yourself.”
Laura hadn’t needed to be told twice. She’d readied herself and scurried out.
When Mrs. Guskin first arrived, shortly after Laura’s mother died, Laura had been leery of trusting the older woman. Then one night Mrs. Guskin came to her rescue, interrupting Laura’s father when he’d had too much to drink and his temper was high. She claimed he’d received a telephone call and then gave Laura the go on, get out of here look. They’d had an alliance ever since.
Laura inhaled, her lungs filling with the damp spring air. She looked around the meadow-like park. The people of Buffalo could almost believe themselves far from the city while walking the paths of Delaware Park. In truth, she often imagined herself far away, in some distant country, a breeder of the finest horses or a country lass caring for her flock of overly pampered chickens. Her dreams were always simple—varied, but full of freedom and fresh air.
An open bench invited her to sit, providing a perfect spot to read her letter. She traced her finger over initials carved into the bench’s worn wood. RB + TF. Who were they? Were they married now, with a houseful of children? Were they deeply in love, devoted to each other? She closed her eyes, blaming the many novels she read for her active imagination and incessant longing for companionship. How lovely would it be to be a woman in love, sitting beside a handsome suitor? She imagined what it would feel like for a kindhearted man to take her hand, to have eyes for only her, to carve their initials for the world to see . . .
From within the confines of her handbag, she retrieved her letter. Her reality was not all bad; her letters were better than any dream. After all, this secret friend was real, and he was hers.
Dear Wishing Girl,
She paused, smiling at the silly greeting. When she’d been fourteen, still grieving her mother’s death and feeling stifled by her father’s controlling hand and spike in temper, she’d escaped to the park with pen and paper. Near the letter tree—only it hadn’t been the letter tree then—she’d penned a poem, trying to capture in words the tumultuous feelings warring inside her. When Mrs. Guskin put the hurry-home prism in the window, Laura had panicked, afraid her father would catch her out of the house and read her words, brow furrowed in disappointment.
In desperation, she’d looked for a place to stow her writing, and her eyes had landed on the maple with the narrow hollow. Two days later she’d returned, eager to recover her words and dispose of her novice attempt at poetry for good. But her poetry had not been there. Instead, she’d found a letter.
She’d read it a thousand times since. Even now, she could quote it by memory.
Dear Wishing Girl,
I found your poetry and I have kept it. You didn’t want squirrels using your words for their nests, did you?
You must be wondering how I came upon your words, and so I will tell you. I was at the park with a couple of my chums. We had no plans, and according to my father, it is not good for boys to go about with no direction. He says trouble always follows. My father is never short on advice.
She’d smiled at his mention of his father. Her own father also had a great deal to say about her every move. Reading these words, she felt a connection, like a thin thread linking her and her mystery pen friend together. Over the years it had grown thicker, stronger and more binding.
The lot of us were aimlessly passing the time when we spotted a couple sitting on the grass, staring at each other as though nothing else in the world existed. I thought I might get a laugh if I tossed a pinecone or two at them. I flicked one and hit the man on the leg. He flinched but didn’t take his eyes off the woman. I threw another and another. When I had thrown seven or eight of them, the man jumped from his spot and came chasing after me. His face was all red, and he was scowling. How was I to know that a little fun would rile him up? My pals ran off in different directions, but it made no difference—it was me he wanted.
I ended up climbing the big maple tree and hiding there until he gave up. When I finally came back down, a scrap of paper caught my eye. I thought perhaps I’d found a treasure map or a letter sent between secret lovers. But it was neither. It was your poetry I found, and a great many questions. Who was the writer? Had we ever met?
I think it’s a funny story, don’t you? My father would disapprove; he’d hate knowing that I found a magic mailbox after causing trouble. I suppose it will only be a mailbox if you find this and write back. Otherwise, I am writing to no one. I will call it an act of faith and believe that you will come back and find this and that you and I are meant to be friends. When you find this, write again. Tell me why you left your poetry and why your words have me believing you are sad.
My curiosity is piqued and is begging to know who the mysterious writer is.
Until I hear back, I remain,
Your pinecone-throwing friend
Seven years later, she was still the Wishing Girl and he was still her pinecone-throwing friend, that and many other titles. His writing skills had only become more refined with time, but his letters retained their humor and heart. When she wrote him back the very first time, she told him little about herself. She’d insisted they not use their names, declaring it far more enchanting if they remained anonymous. In truth, she’d feared her father’s reaction should he ever discover their correspondence. She’d already lost her mother. And because of the shoe factory divide, her interactions with her childhood friends were severed. She hadn’t wanted to lose anyone else.
Laura pulled herself from her musings, unread letter still in hand, and glanced toward the window. Her heart stopped. The prisms were in the window, glistening like a beacon. Her father was home.
She leaped to her feet and, like the sly foxes at the zoo, dashed for the servant’s entrance so she could slink inside and pretend nothing was amiss.
Chapter 2
Isaac Campbell’s sizable donation to the zoo gave him the ability to visit the grounds nearly anytime he wanted to. Often he came in the evening or at night when only one guard was on duty. With such a well-known name and recognizable face, thanks to his uncanny resemblance to his father—both tall, broad, and with strikingly dark hair and equally dark eyes—coming at night was the easiest way to get to the tree unnoticed.
Besides, animals never inquired after the Campbell shoe company’s affairs. They didn’t bombard him with gossip about their rival company or pretend to know what happened seven years ago between his father and his father’s former business partner. They didn’t ask him his feelings on prohibition, recount memories of the Great War, or whisper about his bachelorhood. Animals were far less meddlesome than people.
Isaac shoved his hands in his pockets and meandered slowly along the stone paths of the zoo, whistling to the tune of “My Little Dream Girl.” The evening air was crisp but not bitterly cold like the winter nights had been. The temperature was comfortable enough that he could stay all night if he wished.
Outside these gates, he was a different man, but in here, he felt free. Liberated from the struggle to prove himself to his father. Here no one knew he was a sought-after bachelor who felt no inkling of desire to date the women who batted their eyes at him. Here he was free to think of the woman behind the letters, or to think of his uncle who’d died in the war and long for days gone by. The buzzing world outside the gates could wait; he was in no hurry to return to it. His mind wandered in whatever direction it chose, carefree as the spring breeze.
The guard, Bill Turner, an old friend, waved as he made his rounds. “That’s a fine tune you’re whistling.”
“It’s playing on the radio all day long. It gets stuck in my head.”
“I thought maybe you were dreaming about a lady.” Bill stopped his march around the zoo. “We had hundreds of folks here today. The warmer weather is filling these grounds.”
“There’s nothing like spring in Buffalo. Makes you want to get out of doors and celebrate.”
“Sure does,” Bill said. “Even Big Frank’s been livelier. I suppose seeing the grass after all these months has him excited. It’s going to be a good spring.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“The war’s been done long enough that folks is smiling again. Times are good—seems everyone is prospering.” He shrugged. “Everyone’s back to being plumb crazy, and I s’pose that’s better than being sad and worried all the time. Time’s healed a lot of wounds.”
Isaac leaned on the railing of the sea lion enclosure. The big male waddled from his rock to the water and slid in, sleek and smooth. The zoo’s electric lights danced across the ripples the sea lion made, giving the scene a majestic feel. Isaac kept his gaze on the animal, watching the sea lion’s acrobatics in the water. “I think you’re right. The war’s reach is fading. It’ll be a good spring.”
“I hear there’s talk of an exhibition at Niagara Falls. Some fool plans to go over in a rubber ball. Read about it in the paper. Should be happening in a few weeks, or maybe it was months, I can’t remember for sure.”
Years ago, Isaac may have aspired to something so reckless as riding over the falls in a barrel. He’d wanted so badly to make his own mark on the world, one not connected to his father or their business. Now he wasn’t sure what he wanted. He’d stayed home when his friends went off to college, just waiting for his turn to make decisions at the factory, but at twenty-three he found that time still hadn’t come. “I may have to go and watch the exhibition. Sounds more entertaining than spending my days trying to take down the Bradshaw shoe factory.”
Bill’s rumbling laugh earned him a smile from Isaac and a sleepy-eyed look from the nearest animals. “Is your father still giving you . . . interesting assignments?”
“I’d hardly call them interesting.” He kept his tone light despite the angst he felt. If only Bradshaw would close his factory doors, Isaac would be free of him, and then perhaps Isaac’s father would give him real responsibility at the Campbell factory. His hands tightened on the metal railing. “There’s a new supplier of raw goods. Word is he inherited a business from his late father. There’s talk that he’s brilliant and incredibly wealthy—I believe he deals in investments as well, but I don’t really know much about him. It is now my father’s hope that I will befriend the man and get him to work exclusively with Campbell shoes. He’s convinced that this man is the secret to him becoming bigger than Bradshaw and putting Bradshaw out of business for good.”
Isaac’s jaw clenched. He wanted to open new markets or design a useful shoe, but his father was forever telling him to run along as though he hadn’t been learning the business for years. When he begged for responsibility, his father gave him trivial tasks, like befriending a man. But Isaac knew numbers were what ought to sell contracts.
“Someday . . .” He trailed off. All this talk of work left him feeling like an impish child, trying desperately to prove himself. He had everything . . . and yet he always felt something was missing.
“You’re ambitious. I’m sure your father is proud of you.” Bill grinned, his crooked teeth showing. “Might as well enjoy all the time you have. Someday you’ll likely have more work than you’d like. I say, take a woman with you to the falls. Watch the spectacle. Enjoy life—the rest will work itself out.” Bill winked before starting on his rounds again.
Take a woman. Every time Isaac heard those words, his thoughts went to his letter girl. She may not know his name, but she knew him better than anyone else. How many letters had he composed asking to meet her, begging to know her name? But he never left them for her. He tore them up, threw them in the fire, and went on as they had for so many years. Talking about books, the weather, and the happenings of Buffalo. They wrote of dreams and sorrows, fairy tales and hopes. Always careful and cautious, sharing details that filled his mind and heart but never enough clues to put a name or a face with the words. She’d made it a rule from the start: no names. And he’d complied, despite his curiosity.
Once, when they’d first started writing, he tried to catch her leaving a letter. He spent hours in the tree, even clinging to its branches during a rainstorm. But his efforts were fruitless, and after that he decided to embrace their unique friendship and the gift of namelessness.
Why had he never asked her to change her rule? The part of himself that wanted to ask ached to know her completely. But if he did ask to meet her, or for her name, then he would have to decide what to do with her answer. What if he met her and found her unattractive or abrasive? Either possibility was hard to imagine. Still, there was a risk that what they had would end. And if he no longer had the letters to look forward to, he felt certain a void would form in his life that would be impossible to fill. Theirs was something steady, predictable. In the ever-changing landscape of a bustling city, he wanted to keep for himself this one unchanging pillar.
A wolf at the other end of the zoo howled. He turned toward the noise but saw nothing more than dark shadows. The half-moon and a few electric lights offered enough illumination that he could easily make his way through the maze of pathways, but the night still wrapped everything in a blanket of near darkness. He tossed the scraps of jerky he’d brought for the foxes to find later, when they left their den to stretch their weary limbs.
From there to the letter tree, he needed no light at all. He traveled the path now on his long legs, one step after another, until he’d arrived and was reaching inside the maple.
He smiled. She’d written. And soon he was whistling “My Little Dream Girl” again.
* * *
“Your father’s in ill spirits. That man can growl louder than the devil in a thunderstorm.” Mrs. Guskin smirked while she helped freshen the waves in Laura’s hair. “He’s bringing a guest and has told me twice to make sure you’re dressed in the latest fashion and don’t have dirty nails. He mumbled something about you playing in the dirt.”
“He knows I’m not playing in the dirt,” Laura said. “He used to like the flowers in the back before Mother died.”
“He’s a stubborn man, and he’s convinced himself that hating everything that has to do with your mother will somehow make things better.”
“And he calls me foolish.” Laura balked. “Being mad at a dead person never got anyone anywhere.”
Mrs. Guskin’s tight bun gave her a deceptively stern look. “That may be, but it won’t hurt to give your hands a good scrubbing. I believe this dinner has something to do with business, and there’s no reason to rile up your father.”
Everything her father did was about business or social standing. He dressed each morning with the sole purpose of impressing others. He ate at the finest restaurants and even attended speakeasy gatherings at green-door locations, all for the purpose of bettering the Bradshaw shoe brand and ensuring Buffalo—and the whole world, for that matter—knew Bradshaw shoes were superior to Campbell shoes. Even her pet macaw, Tybalt, was the result of his vanity. He’d bought the red bird only because it was exotic and something few others had. He’d bragged about it until he grew annoyed with Tybalt’s sea slang and smell, at which time Laura claimed the bird as her own.
Tybalt’s birdcage was in the far corner of her room where he could see out the window. He was a delightful, albeit stubborn, creature, who had completely stolen her animal-loving heart. He always paraded back and forth across his roost, red feathers puffed and head jutting forward and back.
“Storm’s coming,” he squawked as he pranced, mimicking a sailor she’d come to know in voice only. “Storm’s coming.”
Laura snickered at the words he’d learned to mimic while traveling from South America, but inside she squirmed. It was only old ship talk. She knew that. Yet an eerie chill raced down her spine as though Tybalt’s words somehow carried truth. Could a storm be coming? She longed for change, but not the vile, chaotic sort. What her heart and soul yearned for was change that brought escape from the monotony of her life.
“Perhaps you could tell my father I’ve a headache, and then I would not have to sit through a business dinner at all.” Laura’s eyes connected with Mrs. Guskin’s through the mirror, and a knowing look passed between Mrs. Guskin’s motherly brown eyes and Laura’s younger blue ones. “I promise I’d stay in my room.”
“I know what you’d do. You’d pore over your veterinary books or lose yourself in one of your well-loved fairy tales while missing your mama.”
“If I promised to help you, would that change anything? I’d dust every inch of this floor.”
“Tempting—I do love it when we work together—but I think it best you save your headache for when it is truly needed, don’t you? You’ll only have to sit there until your father pulls out the brandy and insists you leave so they can talk business.”
“I don’t see why I need to be there at all. He’ll simply talk numbers and complain about Campbell and claim the man is stealing his designs. It’s the same thing every time.”
“That may be. But I think it wise to appease him. I don’t blame you, but for now wear the green dress—the color is stunning, and it’s so fashionable. And remember if the dinner drags on that it will end, and your books will be here, hidden under your bed like they always are. And I’ll be here, ready to hear how it went.”
